


Buried Treasures

by leonidaslion



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Drama, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-23
Updated: 2011-01-23
Packaged: 2017-10-15 00:42:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/155291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leonidaslion/pseuds/leonidaslion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: hiccups, buried treasure</p>
            </blockquote>





	Buried Treasures

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aliskye](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=aliskye).



“Sammy!” Dean shouted, scanning the beach. “Goddamn it, Sam, talk to me!”

“He can’t hear you,” a slight breeze whispered in his ear. “Wouldn’t be able to call back anyway. Cat’s got his tongue.”

Dean glanced toward the voice and, for the first time all night, he could see a faint outline where Georgina Cliffe’s ghost was standing. Maybe it was the moonlight overhead, or maybe it was the fact that they were in the cove where she died. Dean used to feel sorry for her—being buried alive by pirates can’t have been fun—but she lost the right to his pity the moment she took his brother.

“Where the fuck is he?” he demanded. Then, without waiting for an answer _(he wasn’t gonna get one anyway: not from her)_ , he went back to looking the beach over. He had spent the entire, engine-murdering, rubber-cooking drive here hoping that there’d be some sign—a disturbed mound, maybe a faint depression in the sand—but of course there was nothing. Only the smooth, dark beach and waves and somewhere underneath it all, his brother was running out of air.

“You won’t find him,” Georgina taunted, floating after Dean as he stepped out onto the sand. “Not in time. Then he can stay with me.”

Dean clenched his jaw on the groan that wanted to slip out of him at that. What the fuck was it with Sam and psycho supernatural chicks anyway? Tightening his grip on the shovel, he called again.

“Sammy!”

This time the word came out roughly enough that Dean’s throat felt raw in its wake. He wondered wildly how _Sam’s_ throat was: whether his brother was screaming somewhere beneath all this earth. God, he had to be. If he was still _(alive)_ conscious. But no matter how much Dean strained his ears, he couldn’t hear anything beyond the wind on the rocks and the crashing of the waves.

Was Sam just too far down for the sound of his panic to filter through the sand? Or was the bitch to Dean’s left keeping him from hearing his brother? Some ghosts could do that: block out certain sounds, certain sights.

“Better start digging,” Georgina giggled. “Tick tock, tick tock goes the clock. Breathing shallow now. Pretty soon, he’ll close his eyes and go to sleep like a little baby. Hush-a-bye, hush-a-bye, hush.”

“That’s not happening,” Dean growled. Bitch was right about one thing, though: he couldn’t keep wandering back and forth. He was wasting time.

After a few more seconds of hesitation, Dean kicked himself in gear and started digging. He had no way of knowing where on this stretch of beach Georgina had buried his brother, so one place was good as another. If he got a foot down without any signs that he was in the right place, though, he was gonna relocate. He had time for three, maybe four, guesses before Sam _(died)_ ran out of air.

As fast as Dean was shoveling, the sand was faster. The sides of the hole kept sliding back into place before he had time to dump his first shovel-full. Swearing, he sped his strokes and put his back into it. Gained a little ground.

Georgina hovered at his back and sang little bits and pieces of rhymes and old songs that were probably popular in the early 1700s when she had died. Occasionally, she’d get lucid enough to lean in and whisper in his ear: ask if he really thought he was going to find any buried treasure here.

Dean tuned her out and focused on the sand. Focused on the rhythm of his body.

Dig the shovel in. Push forward. Pull up. Dump. Dig the shovel in. Push forward. Pull up. Dump.

He was breathing hard before more than a few minutes had passed and, despite the cool breeze coming in off the water, sweat dripped down his neck and into his eyes. It got bad enough that he had to pause and drag his arm across his forehead and that was when he heard it. A muffled, odd noise off to his right.

“Better hurry,” Georgina urged.

But instead Dean stepped away from his hole in the direction that the noise had come from. The sand didn’t look any different over there, but that had sounded like … fuck, it sounded like …

“Where are you going?”

The noise came again and Dean sprinted forward the four steps he needed to before dropping to his knees. Bending over, he pressed his ear against the sand and closed his eyes. Georgina was shouting at him, demanding that he get back to work, but the sound was distant and unimportant. The waves—the world—seemed to be hesitating: stopped along with his breath and heart as he waited.

There was no mistaking the noise when it came a third time and Dean’s chest gave a single, painful pulse as the world lurched into motion again. He could see the humor of it in an impartial kind of way, could even acknowledge the fact that he was going to tease Sam mercilessly about this later, but right now he was too relieved to feel anything else.

Sammy always did get the hiccups when he was scared shitless.

Dean pounded his hand on the sand once and shouted, “Hang on, Sam! I’m coming!”

As though only now realizing that she had lost, Georgina let out a furious wail. Dean pushed back onto his heels at the cry, turning to face her, and saw that he wasn’t going to be able to get the shovel around in time to disperse her. He should have brought a shotgun, maybe: should have kept her away with an occasional blast, but she’d been so insubstantial and so pitiful that he hadn’t bothered.

She didn’t look either now.

 _Shit,_ Dean thought, and then she was on him, hands curled into claws and ripping, and Dean … Dean was cold. He was cold as fuck, but uninjured. Georgina pulled back far enough to stare at him in enraged disbelief and Dean looked back for a moment, reveling in the fact that he was still there.

Then he let out a sharp laugh and said, “Looks like you used up all your mojo playing bury the Winchester, George.”

She tried for him again as he got to his feet. “No, he’s mine!” she screamed. “You can’t take him!”

“Watch me, bitch,” Dean told her, and started digging.


End file.
